


Little Wolfling Mate

by Lilylotusbud



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Joffrey's a dick, Romance, Sandor's in luuuuuurrrve, and Ned is not amused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilylotusbud/pseuds/Lilylotusbud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane wasn't expecting much when the king ordered a traveling party bound for Winterfell. He was just there to keep the shit-head princeling safe, hopefully with the chance of getting drunk enough in the evenings to tolerate him.</p><p>What he finds at Winterfell is as unfathomable as Robert Baratheon going celibate: a dark haired girl itching to be a warrior, with a glare as fierce as the wolf designed on her family's sigil. Arya Stark.</p><p>His mate. The other half of his soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His mark took form mere moments after he was born, big and unusual and much too dark in contrast to a babe's soft skin. His wet-nurse said that it glowed right as he was put to sleep, bright, like the stars were shining down on him.

Sod that.

Sandor tossed and turned in his bed, chest rising and heaving as sweat clung to his skin like morning dew. The room was hot. Too bloody hot. The whole sodding castle was too hot.

The man opened his eyes with an irritated growl, tossing the sheets off his body and sitting up against the headboard. His arm tingled. It didn't hurt. No, it never hurt, but he hissed at the sensation anyway, pulling his rough-spun shirt over his head and exposing his skin to the stuffy air in his chambers. The room was dark, but he could still see the mark etched out onto his skin.

It spanned the length of his arm, a design with lines as dark as onyx. It was a sword, the marking. A skinny, short sword with a thin hilt and a thin blade that looked so sharp it could shave the hair off a man's head without him even noticing. It was beautiful.

His soul mark.

Sandor stared at it for a moment, before sighing as he rested his head back on the headboard, closing his eyes.

Seven fucking hells, he needed sleep. The riding party was set out to depart on the morrow, and here he was, still awake in the middle of the bleeding night.

Lying back down, the man grunted as he tried to shift in a comfortable position in his bed. After a moment of stillness, his eyes opened as he stared at the mark on his arm.

He didn't know why it was tingling, but he supposed he would find out, wouldn't he?

 

* * *

 

They said her mark took form the moment she had took her first breath and let out her first cry. Her mother said she could see it shining from her birthing bed, that she had thought the gods had kissed her skin with sunlight.

Right.

Arya ran down the hall, bounding as her breath quickened with her pace. She glanced behind her with a grin, before turning back to her destination. They wouldn't catch her. They couldn't run like her -- they weren't nearly fast enough.

The dark haired girl raced to her room, grunting as she flung the heavy door open as fast as she could. It shut loudly once she was inside, and she spent a moment just leaning against the cool, thick wood, heart thumping like the flap of a humming bird's wings in her chest.

It wasn't the first time she'd run away from sewing. But, it  _was_ the first time she'd ran and left Jeyne Poole with a gobsmacked look on her normally smug face. It felt good. Very good. She could still see the shock on Sansa's face.

Arya laughed aloud and stepped into the light of the room. It was a large room, with a four poster bed and a full-length mirror set against the wall in the corner, and Arya was always grateful for the extra space. She could practice her dancing without any restraint in here. 

Walking to the chest at the foot of her bed, she lifted the big lid and pulled out her needle from within. Immediately, she started to move.

Spinning her blade at her side with expert ease, she pivoted on one foot, slashing as she spun to one side. She closed her eyes as she continued. Syrio said that the greatest of water dancers learned how to see with all of their senses, not just with the sight of their eyes. She had to learn to see from feel. Learn how to see with her nose.

_Calm as still water. Quiet as a shadow._

Arya moved again, stepping on the wood floor with the balls of her feet.  _Quick as a snake._ _Light as a feather._ _  
_

She lunged forward, stabbing air, her feet finding the small scratch that was carved in the floor just in front of her wooden wardrobe.  _Flow like silk. Flow like water._

Her breath came out in a rush as a sharp tingling feeling bloomed on her back.

"Ah!" The Stark girl halted in her steps, free hand flying to her back as her eyes snapped open. Her mark.

She craned her neck towards where the tingling was as much as she could, before looking up and glancing at the mirror on the other side of the room. Hurriedly, she strode forward, placing Needle down on the bed, wriggling out of her top, and tossing it to the floor.

Her soul mark was big, almost big enough to cover the whole of her spine. Maester Luwin said that it was by far the largest he'd ever seen, as well as the most unique in it's design; Arya wasn't sure if that was meant as a compliment, but she was sure it was the truth. 

It was the outline of a dog, it's head upturned and mouth open, stuck in a perpetual howl. The lines were almost like shadows, curling like smoke, fluid and smooth against her skin. And it was beautiful. Not pretty like Sansa or the flowers she and other girls were so obsessed with. No, this was beautiful in a unique, other-wordly way.

In a dark way.

"Arya!"

Her head whipped away from her bare back, towards the closed door where footsteps could be heard. Her father's footsteps. Septa Mordane had gotten to him faster than Arya would've thought. Seven hells.

She ran to her shirt, lifting the cotton garment and slinging her arms through it, pulling it down over her head. The footsteps were closer now, but Arya flew to the entrance, un-barring the door and flinging it open just as they stopped.

Lord Eddard Stark stood there, clad in furs and leathers, fist frozen mid-knock in the air. Arya smiled.

"Father." She said, blinking up at him almost innocently.

He may not have wanted to show it, but she saw the smile that grew in his amused eyes. "Daughter," Ned replied. He seemed to remember what he'd come for, because the amusement wavered for a moment, "The Septa tells me you've ran. Again."

That had the girl rolling her eyes, turning away from the doorway. Ned didn't seem to appreciate that.

"Arya."

"It wasn't my fault!" Arya spun to face him again, grey eyes hard.

"It wasn't your fault that you insulted a girl and ran away from your Septa when threatened with punishment?" Ned raised an eyebrow.

"It didn't happen like that. They've only told you half of it."

"How exactly  _did_ happen, then?" He asked her, exasperatedly, "I want to hear your side of things. No lies, no embellishments. Tell it all."

The girl gave a little shrug, replying without hesitation, "I didn't start it. They're the ones who called me a horse face again," She looked at her father now, face passive, "I just told Jeyne to shut up. Or I'd make her shut up myself."

Ned ran a weary hand down his face, sighing deeply, "Gods. Arya, Child, we talked about this."

Arya scowled. "You've talked about it, you mean. What am I supposed to do? Let her insult me?" Arya looked at him like he'd grown an extra head, "I'm not going to  _let_ her insult me."

Ned looked at her fondly, taking her shoulders in his hands and leaning down so that they were eye-level. "No, that is not what I meant. I just... want you to handle it more... civilly."

"I'm not a civil girl," Arya responded with a frown. "I'm a Stark girl."

Ned laughed at that, and smiled at her gently. "That you are, that you most definitely are. And a wild one at that. Just promise me you'll not threaten Jeyne Poole again; I don't think her father would like that very much."

Arya looked to the floor, "I'll try. But, I won't promise."

Ned chuckled, before shaking his head in amusement. They stood there like that for a moment, before Arya stepped to her bed, picking up Needle and holding the blade in her hand. She admired the way the sunlight danced along the metal.

Suddenly curious, she asked, "Is everyone still getting ready?"

Her father sighed again from beside her, watching her slowly put Needle back down again as she looked up at him. "Aye, we have. The royal party will be arriving on the morn." He smiled wearily down at her, "Which reminds me, I should go out and see if things are in order." He leant down and kissed her forehead gently, "I'll see you at dinner."

With that said, he straightened his back and walked out, closing the door to her room gently on his way. Arya looked off after him for a moment, before turning her head back, putting Needle away in her trunk. She was closing the lid when she caught glimpse of herself through the mirror in the corner.

Looking at herself in the reflection, she tugged at the shirt she wore, free hand absentmindedly reaching around to touch her back.

Why was it tingling? And what did it really mean?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya is 14 in this stage of the story. This is what inspired her soul mark: http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/tribal-tatoo-howl-wolf-tattoo-design-illustration-30451213.jpg


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you excited, then?" Mycah threw the pebble in his hand, making it bounce across the surface of the pond. It skipped three times before submerging into the icy water. "For the king?"

Arya sat herself down on a boulder near the water, shrugging as she slipped out of her boots, "I don't know. I guess. My father said he and the king are old friends, but I've never met him. Or the queen."

Or their children, or any of the royal party, really. They were all just a bunch of faceless strangers to her. Strangers who were going to be their guests for who knows how long. She hoped at least one of them could keep up with her in a spar.

She placed her bare feet on the ground, feeling the grass between her toes. Nymeria nosed at her ankles, making a little whine in the back of her throat, and Arya giggled, leaning down to stroke her soft fur. Mycah picked up another pebble and threw it; this one didn't skip at all this time.

"I've heard they're bringing knights with them. The best of them are heading for Winterfell." Mycah said, turning his head her way and grinning. "I've heard they've all got broadswords and helms that shine like diamonds."

"Where'd you here that?" Arya asked, cocking an eyebrow as she dipped a toe in the cold pond water. It was frigid, but it felt nice anyway.

"Percy," Mycah replied.

Arya snorted, playfully kicking water his way, " _Percy_? The baker's son who's known for lying through his bloody teeth more times than he tells the truth? That's who your listening to?"

Mycah scowled and kicked water back at her, causing her to laugh and jump out of the way.

"Shut up," he said, but Arya could see the small smile twitching at the corners of his lips. 

He picked up another rock, but Arya snatched it right from his fingers. She whipped her arm and threw it out, and the water rippled as it bounced four times.

"What else have you heard about the royals, then," Arya looked to her friend, who was staring at the pond where the ripples were still moving.

Mycah rolled his eyes, but answered anyway, "Not much else. At least, not anything everyone didn't know already." The was a small pause, and then the butcher's boy's eyes lit up all of a sudden. "Oh! There is one thing. I overheard Jory talking about it with a few men from the guard."

Arya leaned down, sticking her hands in the water and cupping them, before bringing them to her lips as she sipped. She looked back at Mycah, "What'd they say about it? Were they talking about knights?"

The boy grinned with excitement, shaking his head, before picking up another pebble and wheeling it out into the water. "No, not about knights; this one's different. They were talking about this man, Prince Joffrey's body-guard. They call him the Hound."

Arya's brow furrowed, "The Hound?"

Mycah nodded, "They say he's a loyal dog to the Lannisters. Tall and big, and deadly with a sword in his hand. He's got these scars on his face, burn marks from some accident when he was younger. They say that the scars are so ugly that they scare children right out of their skins."

Arya scoffed at that. "Scars are so ugly that they scare people out of their skins?"

Mycah kicked at the dirt, "That's just what people say."

"I don't believe it," Arya said. And she didn't. She'd seen smiths with huge scars from accidents with the forges; She'd seen them, and she didn't think they were ugly at all. Scars were just skin. And who couldn't bloody well handle  _skin_. "Scars are just that. Scars."

Mycah shrugged, "I'm not the one who said it."

Arya was sinking her toes into the soft dirt at the bottom of the pond when a sudden familiar tingling in her back caused her to jerk. Mycah looked to her, face alarmed at her sudden movement.

"Are you okay?" He asked, concerned.

Arya nodded, shaking out her arms, as if it would get rid of some of the sensation. "It's my mark again. I don't know why it's... nevermind." Arya shook her head.

Mycah was silent for a moment, peering at her curiously. Arya looked away, embarrassed and uncomfortable for some reason.

"Do you ever wonder about," the boy gestured to her back, "Them. You know, your-"

"Soul mate?" The words tasted foreign on her tongue, but not bad. It felt oddly right to say them aloud. She never really said them most days.

Mycah nodded, eyes lingering on her back.

"Sometimes." Arya answered truthfully. She used to dream, when she was little, of someone who's presence she felt deep in her bones. Someone who's face she couldn't quite see. When she woke, her mark would be tingling, the skin warm. "Sometimes I wonder if they'll find me one day. If it'll be any different."

The breeze came through right then, blowing the girl's hair back away from her face. 

And sometimes she _wished_ , deep down that they would find each other, however ridiculous it sounded.

 

* * *

 

If he was to describe Winterfell in one word, Sandor would've chosen the word grey.

The road was grey, the castle even grey-er, hell, the  _sky_ had been grey ever since they'd passed the crossroad on the King's Road. Everything was grey.

But. He would admit, begrudgingly of course, that Winterfell was magnificent in it's greyness.

Sandor looked up at the castle they were marching towards from inside his helm; it was a beast of a building, towering over all of them like a giant's paradise, made up of strong, unyielding stone and wood. They could hear the people from inside the gates, even with the sound of their horses' hooves pounding into the dirt. It must've been a thousand years old, and still standing strong, housing the Starks for yet another generation.

Ah, the Starks. Sandor wondered just what  _those_ pack of wolves would be like. He'd had to sit in the king's presence for weeks now while the old, fat idiot rambled on about his old friend and his family. He'd hoped for once the Baratheon was right about something.

"There it is!" Someone in the front of the group called out, pointing at the castle. "We're almost there!"

Sandor grunted from beneath his dog helm.

_Yes, well, no shit they were almost there. They were in front of the bloody castle, for fuck's sake._

Sandor almost cursed aloud when his arm suddenly started tingling again, the feeling pinpricking down his skin. Seven hells. He said nothing though, as the king rode forward towards the gates, leading them all after him like a herd of fucking sheep being led into the wolves' den.

This was going to be one hell of a visit.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Arya!"_

Mycah jumped at the voice, dropping the pebble in his hand in alarm. Arya scowled as she turned her head, glaring in the direction of the person now striding towards them. With her flaming red hair, flushed cheeks, and the aggressive frown painted on her face, her sister looked mad enough to raise all hell. Not that Arya cared, of course.

"What?" The dark haired Stark girl shot back, just as her sister halted in her tracks in front of the pond. She felt as if she really wasn't going to be in the mood for whatever was to transpire next. "Go away."

"What are you  _doing_?" Sansa asked, looking her up and down incredulously, "Why are you in the water? And now, of all times!"

Sansa barely acknowledged Mycah's presence, only taking a second to spare him a disdainful glance from the corner of her eyes that made Arya want to chuck a pebble right in her stupid, pretty face.

"You look like a ragged fisherman's daughter." Her sister said, "Get out of there, before I get the Septa."

Arya snorted. "I'm in a pond,"  She supposed she must've made quite the sight in her sister's eyes. Calf-deep in a pond, wearing a tunic with her breeches rolled up to the knee, but still soaked from the water. "Not the sea. Besides, what's wrong with looking like a fisherman's daughter? At least fisherman's daughters don't look like stuffy idiots in skirts and silk."

Mycah tried to choke on his chuckle, and Sansa turned long enough to give him a piercing glare. Arya aimed a grin at her friend as her sister's back was to her, not even bothering to drop it when the red haired girl turned back.

"Shut up," Sansa glared. "And, get out. Mother wants you to get ready; the king's nearly here!"

Arya frowned, looking to the water beneath her and then back at her sister. "I don't have to wear a dress, do I?" Dresses were hell. Too tight and too itchy and definitely not worth the effort. She couldn't move right when she was in one.

Sansa rolled her eyes, "Of course you have to wear a dress -- all the ladies have to wear one."

"I'm not a lady," Arya scowled. "Besides, you wear enough dresses for the both of us." She added under her breath.

She yelped when Sansa came to the very edge of the pond and reached over the water, tugging her firmly towards her.

" _Oi!_ "

"Come  _on_ ," Sansa urged, and Arya stumbled out of the pond, water trickling down her legs and feet as her sister pulled her along. 

Arya squirmed in the older girl's hold, and when she turned her head, she caught sight of Mycah's sympathetic smile as they walked away. She mouthed a sheepish 'sorry' his way, before turning forward and ramming her sister's side with her body. Sansa let out a squeal, but kept pulling her, scowl set firmly on her face. Arya looked towards the sky in irritation.

Fantastic. Dragged away to be forced into a dress; The day was off to a lovely beginning. Hell.

 

* * *

  

Sandor clutched Stranger's reins, pulling the horse to a stop inside the courtyard in Winterfell's gates. The yard was lively, thrumming with excitement as all the rest of their party rode their mares and fillies through, the hooves of the horses kicking up dirt as people milled about to watch.

Sandor didn't like people watching him. There were too many damn eyes here. The prince on the other hand... seemed just fine with it.

The big man looked to his right through the holes in his helm, watching as the golden haired, blue eyed Joffrey Baratheon smirked out towards the crowd like he owned the whole bloody world. Thank the gods he didn't yet; at least the realm was safe from collapsing from sheer stupidity while Joffrey was still just a prince. About a decade or so from now though, when the little cunt would take on the crown... Sandor wasn't confident that it would remain that way.

He turned his head, pulling his visor open, and soon saw a line of people right up at the front of them who could only be the lords and ladies of Winterfell. Eddard Stark stood there like a great bleeding brick wall, all stiff and ram-rod straight, face set in what had to be the most stoic expression this world had ever seen.

"Stark, you old bastard!" King Robert called from his horse, voice irritatingly loud. Sandor always thought the man too fucking loud. Well, if he was being honest, so did half the kingdom, really.

At least Eddard had some sense of humor, for when the king dismounted and stomped right up to the line, going on about his old friend having gotten fat, the lord of Winterfell just slid his eyes down to man's protruding gut and back again as if to say:  _'I've seen pigs slighter than you'._ Which, again, if Sandor was being honest, was true.

For a moment, everyone seemed to wait with bated breath for the king's response. But, as luck would have it, the twit just laughed, loud and raucous, pulling the man in front of him into a tight embrace, before continuing down the line to greet the rest of the noble house.

From the looks of them, the Stark family children seemed to take more after their lady mother than their lord father, all fair skin, blue eyes, and auburn hair.

Joffrey, ever so courteous, was leering and smirking rather keenly towards a young girl who stood beside her siblings. She was a pretty thing, with braids woven through her red hair, clad in a dress and furs as she looked on admiringly at the shit head of a prince. Sandor knew those eyes she was making at the boy; they were the same eyes the girls in King's Landing made at Joffrey. The big, mooning ones that girls got when they were smitten with something.

All of a sudden he pitied this little bird. Hopefully she would decide soon that her affections were better felt on someone else, and not on the blonde twat. She would be better off for it; the boy would surely love to torment her in any way he could.

Sandor was pulled out of his thoughts by yet another bout of rambunctious laughter from Robert Baratheon. The king did have one hell of an ear-piercing laugh, he would give him that.

"I heard you have another daughter, Ned!" The king said, taking a glance at the children, before looking to his friend again, "Where's the younger one, then? Off with a lad?" He laughed again, and Sandor fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Ned Stark chuckled. "Arya doesn't have much interest in going off with boys, thankfully." He looked around the crowd, mouth forming a small frown, undoubtedly because he didn't see the face of his other daughter; he turned to the young girl with the long red hair, "Sansa, where is your sister?"

The girl dragged her eyes away from Joffrey just long enough to look at Ned and shrug her shoulders. The man frowned even more, flicking his eyes between the prince and his daughter in a wary manner. He cleared his throat just as Sandor snorted under his breath.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Grace," Ned sighed, turning away from the crowd with a look of defeat. "It seems my youngest girl has avoided your welcoming."

Sandor applauded this girl, whoever she was. If he wasn't one of the ones being greeted in the party, he would've been halfway home by now. This whole exchange was too fucking tedious.

Although, Robert didn't mind at all, it seemed. Merely chuckled and clapped his friend hard on the shoulder. "Oh, it's alright. Children will be children, eh? And I bet you've got yourself a wild one from the sound of her!"

Ned nodded his head fondly, "Aye. You'd like her, I'd expect. That one's as wild as they come."

"And good to hear it," Robert grinned, before turning around and booming, "Men! Dismount and get your sorry arses inside!" With that, the man turned on his heel, ignoring the castle entirely to briskly walk in another direction, "The lord Stark will take me down to his crypts so I can pay my respects."

Sandor heard the queen make a protest to Robert's statement, but he didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to it, as he swung a leg off of Stranger and landed on the ground. He removed his helm, holding it in one hand as he studied the building in front of him.

This place was cold, but the air felt fresher than the air in the capital, and the trees looked more lush than any near the Red Keep. Cold or not, he would take this place over King's Landing any damn day. At least this place didn't seem to be writhing with royal-worshipping cunts.

He grunted, taking Stranger's reins and wrapping them around his hand. He was just about to lead the horse away to the stables (because, if Stranger was left with the squires, there would no doubt be few less boys among the king's travelers), when something small bumped into his back-

" _Ah!"_ A high pitched voice cried out.

-And his mark felt as if it was being  _pierced_.

The pain wasn't anything he hadn't already had a thousand times worse, but he still flinched, one hand making a grab for his arm. It was only a moment, before queer sort of stillness seized Sandor's insides as he listened to a rustling of someone moving behind him.

_Here. They were here._

He turned slowly, but as soon as he did, it didn't matter how slow he moved, because the whole  _fucking world_ seemed to stop. His eyes locked to the sight in front of him now, throat going bone-dry as he froze.

A girl. A small, skinny girl who was sprawled on her rear on the ground, face contorted in an expression that was a mixture of pain and complete, utter confusion, one hand bracing herself on the ground as the other clutched at her back. It took a moment for Sandor's brain to process that she had probably been the one who rammed into him.

She was pale, and her dark hair was braided fancily, but the strands that came loose of them suggested that someone had tugged and tried to undo them. Big, deep, doe eyes stared up at him, wide and unblinking.

They were grey. Grey like winter, grey like the north.

"You..." She whispered. And, Seven hells below, did her voice sound _nice_. "You..."

_She was.._

Sandor's mouth started moving without any command from his part. "You."

"Arya?" A deep voice called out from behind them.

There was the sound of boots pounding into the ground, but Sandor didn't move a muscle, nor did the lass on the ground. And, then all of a sudden Ned Stark stood between the two of them, and Sandor wanted nothing more than to push the great lord of bloody Winterfell out of the way and onto his arse.

"Mate." Was the only thing that slipped out of the girl's mouth. She didn't even turn her head. And those eyes, those grey eyes never looked away.

Ned Stark looked at her in astonishment, then to Sandor, then back to the girl. Sandor couldn't bring himself to give a flying fuck about him right now. He was too busy looking down at the girl at his feet.

Warmth bloomed from his mark, spreading until it sunk deep in his chest.

_Mate._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor likes watching his mate.

He was  _here._   _He_ _was in Winterfell._  Under her father's roof, in her home. Him... he was... he was her  _soulma-_

Arya's lungs  _burned_  asthe wooden sword smacked against her arm, forcing her to abandon her thoughts.

"Again!" Syrio's gruff braavosi accent demanded.

Her arm stung, but Arya ignored it as she panted, dodging the next blow only by the barest bit. She couldn't let him win this one; He'd already won the last four.

"Faster! This girl must be fast!"

She darted forward, swinging her wooden weapon in an attack to his chest that was meant to knock him off balance. Of course, it didn't -- not even a little bit, seven  _hells_  -- and Syrio merely side-stepped, evading her blow entirely before swiping his sword low and sweeping Arya's legs out from under her.

The girl fell to her defeat, sword clattering to the ground and limbs smarting as she hissed at the familiar pain. She let out a frustrated grunt, but made no move to get up.

Gods, this was getting pathetic. Trust Syrio to be the one to push her to her limits. She could run a full lap around the castle and be back by lunch with relative ease and barely a sweat, but as soon as Syrio put a practice sword in her hand and took up one in his own, it seemed like the energy was rung out of her like water from a cleaning rag. And, though she was too tired to look at the moment, she could already tell that a wooden sword was poised to her chest, right where her heart was.

"Dead." Arya rolled her eyes at the word, flicking her gaze up to the person who'd said it. Syrio's face was passive, but his eyes shone with humor as tapped her chest gently with the sword in his hand. "This girl is very dead. Up."

"If a girl is dead, then she couldn't get up even if she wanted to." The Stark girl replied, not even moving. "So, you're logic makes no sense."

Syrio let out a chuckled and patted her chest with the sword again. "Up, Child."

Arya blew a strand of dark hair from her face in annoyance, scowling as she rose. Syrio picked up her sword before she could get to it, turning away from her and throwing the wooden object over his shoulder without looking back. It was habit more than thought when Arya caught it in one hand with ease. She expected her teacher to whip around and attack again, but nothing followed but stillness.

Arya didn't move an inch. It wasn't often that Syrio stood still. He thought on his feet, quick and silent as a cat, and the rare moments when he did stop while teaching her could be counted on one lonesome hand.

"A girl is troubled." Syrio said, his back still to her. "A girl loses in situations where she had won easily before."

Arya huffed, but her cheeks grew warm with something akin to embarrassment. "Not true! So I lost more than usual today." She faltered a bit when her dancing master turned to her with sharp, skeptical, knowing eyes. She hated it when he did that. "I'm fine."

He studied her for a moment, black eyes piercing and calculating. And it seemed he only needed a moment to gather his thoughts, for soon he was swinging his sword, striding forward suddenly, making Arya almost trip as he placed the tip of his wooden blade to her stomach.

"The little girl should not lie. It doesn't suit her." He had a sad look in his eye as he placed his other hand to her shoulder warmly. It was heavy and comforting, a combination that almost immediately put Arya at ease. "You are not here today. You are... very far away. Far away in that clever mind of yours, not here, not in the duel."

Arya opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her tongue before she could get any of them out. She didn't have any more words for how she felt, she realized. She lost all of them the moment she looked into those dark,  _deep_  brown eyes in the yard yesterday.  _His_ eyes.

_But what did that mean? Why did she feel so... so..._

"Arya." Syrio's voice pulled her back to the present.

Arya blinked, flushing a deep red now as her teacher stood there watching her. She coughed. "Right. Sorry."

"See?" Syrio smiled, amused, "So- very- far- away." His sword tapped on her stomach to punctuate each word, before dropping to his side.

Arya felt her mouth twitch upward at his teasing tone, but whatever smile that had been forming stopped as soon as it had started. Syrio looked at her with concern in his eyes.

 "Please, tell me, Child." He requested, sighing a bit as he rested his weapon's point on the smooth floor, "A man doesn't like it when a girl is troubled."

This time she didn't even bother denying it. Why should she have? Syrio would know if she was lying, anyway. He always seemed to know; she couldn't hide anything from him, even this, it seemed.

There was a small silence, and Arya looked to her feet. She watched as beams of golden sunlight bounced off the glinting stone of the castle floor, a strange and unfamiliar, but warm feeling washing over her like water.

"I've seen him, Syrio," she said, voice quiet and low. The room was almost as quiet as a crypt as she stood, hands clenching around the hilt of her wooden sword, "My... My soulmate, the one I dream about." She looked up, staring at the blank wall behind her teacher with a dull sort of interest. "I've seen him. Finally, after all this time."

There was a silence that seemed to stretch on forever, the distant bustle of men sparring in the training yard outside the hall being the only sounds that filled it. 

Arya pondered to herself how odd it all really was. She'd finally seen him. After years of dreaming, years of imagining, and wondering, and  _wishing_ , there he had been. He had been right in front of her. So  _close_. Close enough for her to see the lighter hazel flecks in the brown of his eyes, close enough so that if she'd stood up and reached out by the barest bit, she'd have been able to touch him.

She felt a thrum in her veins that day. She felt alive, and confused, and content all in a sudden rush, all at the same time. And then... and then her father came and dragged her away from him, tucking her protectively under his arm as he strode away from the courtyard. And the giant, strange man with the scars on his face had watched them go, with eyes that seemed to burn through her.

Everything felt cold after that. Cold, and empty, and stupid.

"This man displeases you, then?"

Arya's eyes immediately snapped to her dancing master's, pupils narrowing as all her previous thoughts dissipated almost instantly. " _No_!"

Her shout reverberated throughout the room, shocking even herself at the sheer force of it. Heat bloomed up her neck.

"I..." Arya looked to her feet, face flushed in embarrassment, "I just meant... no. Never that. Never for him."

Syrio looked displeased for a moment, but it was gone in a flash of a moment. Arya briefly wondered if she had been seeing things.

"A man hears many things," Syrio took a step forward, regarding her with a sad look. "Some whisper around the castle about a horrible disfigured monster who has taken to an innocent girl."

Without any thought whatsoever, a face flashed through Arya's mind. Dark hair, grown long and wavy, parted to cover some of the scars on the side of his head. Strong features. Dark and rugged in a way that sent a shiver of...  _something_ up her spine. It made her toes want to curl within the confines of her shoes.

He looked... like a man. Maybe a man with scars that other men didn't have, but he looked like one nonetheless. Why was that wrong? Why was that so feared of?

"He's not a 'horrible disfigured monster'," She scowled, fingers growing white as she clutched the hilt of her sword. "Those people are  _wrong_ , Syrio."

Syrio looked at her with a mix of fondness and pity, "You know nothing of this man, Child." Syrio sighed, looking off into space with a frown, as if recalling something he'd rather keep buried deep, "You forget, a man has lived once in King's Landing. There were stories, Girl. Stories a man never cared to hear. Things of horror and murmurs of death wherever the prince's dog was seen."

Arya deflated, scowl slipping off of her face as she looked up at her friend. 

"Arya," Syrio smiled at her weakly, just the barest of melancholy upturns displayed on his lips, "Child, he is no true mate. Certainly not one worthy of a sweet girl's love-"

Arya watched as he made to place his hand on the top of her hair, and jerked away from him before he could, jaw and fists clenched in a sudden surge of rage that surprised her.

"You're wrong." She seethed, glaring up at him, "Those stories you heard are just that:  _stories_. The people who told them to you are either  _liars_ or  _idiots_."

_Not to mention a bunch of shit-spewing cows._

Syrio frowned, sighing deeply in a way that made Arya even more agitated. She loved Syrio -- he was like an uncle to her, a part of her family from the moment he'd taught her how to hold a sword properly. But, at this moment there was anger pulsing under her skin, and she didn't even think that it was meant to be for him. It was the words he said. They rang through her head like a taunt. 

_Things of horror..._

It made her want to snarl. Only when she felt her lips pull back did she realize that she had.

"And how does a girl know that?" Syrio asked, voice just a bit wary.

Arya stubbornly looked at him head on, not wavering for a single moment. She felt her body unconsciously relax back into her water dancing stance. "I just...  _do_."

Syrio blocked the attack she aimed at him when she suddenly jumped back into sparring, but the shock on his face was enough to warrant the smug feelings of satisfaction she felt thereafter.

* * *

He needed to see her again.

Sandor watched as the men in the yard swung their dulled broadswords at each other with practiced ease, the ring of steel against steel echoing through the air as he buckled the clasps of his armor. It was half past mid-day, and the training area of Winterfell smelled of grass and the slightest hints of old blood mixed with dirt. Men milled about, watching the sparring matches and chatting about things that Sandor couldn't care less about.

He looked out into the distance, watching as a sword swung down in a savage arc across the yard, pictures of grey eyes and chocolate hair misting through his thoughts.

He needed to see the girl again. 

He didn't care how. He didn't care if he had to go through her father's whole fucking guard, as long as he had a moment -- even  _ten sodding seconds_ would've been good enough -- alone with her.

The man almost snorted, running a hand down the lower half of his face in a wary, languid movement.

Not that her father would allow that without a fight anyway. Lord Stark hadn't been very pleased at his daughter's declaration that morning in the courtyard; even if the stuffy old tosser remained cool and composed as he dragged the girl away, Sandor remembered the dark look in his eyes.

Sandor got the distinct feeling he wasn't welcome.

Laughter rang out somewhere in the distance, loud and rambunctious; the eldest Stark boy had been fighting the bastard boy. Now he stood tall and proud on the other side of the yard, his half brother disarmed and lying on the grass.

"You've got to work on your footing, Jon," Robb Stark boomed, holding out his hand to the boy beneath him.

Jon scoffed, but took the hand anyway, grey eyes flashing with humor despite his loss. Robb may have been the true born son to the lord of the north, but one would have to be blind not to see that the bastard boy was most definitely his father's son. With his solemn expressions and dark hair, Jon Snow looked so alike to Eddard Stark that one who didn't know better would wonder who was the bastard and who was the lordling.

"Don't get too cocky," Jon smirked, taking a step back from his brother and twirling his sword with his hand, "I'll get you back next round."

Rob grinned at the challenge. "Oh you will, will you-"

The lad didn't even get to finish his sentence, as a huge clanging crash filled the air. In the distance, the alarmed shouts of the castle inhabitants rang out shrilly, as the clacking sound of wood against wood clashed over and over again.

Jon snow frowned, "What's that?"

The sounds grew closer, and into the yard came running the young twat Theon Greyjoy, red in the face with an expression that held what looked like either severe irritation or mild constipation. The ties to his shirt and breeches were nearly undone, and the mass of curls on his head stuck about in different directions.

The state of disarray that his clothing and hair were in would've been a mystery, had it not been for the girl who came running in behind him, whose yellow hair was mussed, and who didn't even look like she'd put her dress on right side out.

Sandor nearly rolled his eyes at the sight. Another self-obsessed green boy who spent his days fucking about instead of doing useful things; it was like the world couldn't get enough of the fuckers.

"For fuck's sake." Theon sneered, raking a hand through his hair, while trying to adjust his pants at the same time, "They're doing it again, Robb. Talk to your bloody sister!"

Robb and Jon shared a look, both snorting under their breath. The dark brows on Jon Snow's face lifted as he grinned.

"Public areas of the castle are usually inhabited by people, Theon." Jon spoke, his eyes lingering on the blonde girl, before quickly looked away, blushing. "You have a room you can go to, you know. Try using that instead of the stables and maybe this wouldn't happen so much."

"I was never bothered until your sister and her fucking ' _dancing_ ' instructor decided to spar at random times of day. At random places." The Greyjoy boy -- for despite how old he actually was, Sandor refused to call someone who was stupid enough to be caught fucking in the  _stables_  of all places a man, so a boy he would continue to be -- punctuated his annoyance by shoving his shirt back into his trousers. "And we were in the fucking weaponry, thanks."

"Still a public place." Robb winked at the fair-haired girl. The lanky thing flushed darkly, and Theon gave him a glare. He grabbed the poor girl's hand and tugged her off to god-knows where, probably intent in finishing what they were interrupted from.

Jon frowned again. "Was that where that crash came from?"

Before anyone could say anything else, a loud, high-pitched battle-cry sounded through the air, and stilled them all.

Sandor felt her voice in his bones. Felt exactly where she was before his eyes slid to her compact, moving figure, which was locked in a fervent spar with a man he hadn't seen before. The short man was quick as a snake, bits of his curly hair clinging to the sweat on his olive skin as he skillfully swung his wooden sword with practiced ease. His movements were sharp and precise, like the sluice of a sea current against rocks.

But the girl.

Sandor throat grew dry as he watched. The young Stark girl slashed back at her opponent with vicious determination, dark hair falling in her face, her left hand holding her sword as if it weighed nothing. She pivoted on her toes as she adapted to her sparring partner's attacks, her movements wild and as unpredictable and clever as they were effective. Grey eyes set like stone, her form was graceful in it's deadliness.

She moved like silk. Fluid as the drip of honey from a spoon.

This was a dance. And had Sandor not been watching with rapt attention, he would've missed it's ending.

Smoother than the gait of a cat, the olive-skinned man swung his weapon across, hard and fast, and quick as lightening in a summer storm, the little dark-haired girl dodged. She used her size to her advantage, ducking under the blow, face inches away from the surface of the practice blade. Using the momentum she gained, the clever thing swung her body into and then around her opponent's space, body twirling so that she faced his unguarded back. Before the curly-haired man could move, the smooth wood of her sword was already poised at his spine.

"Dead." She breathed.

Sandor swallowed past the surge of sudden heat that spiked in his belly. Seven hells below.

Hair clung to the pale skin of her nape and grey eyes glowed with her victory, the tiniest hint of a prideful smile curling at the corners of her lips. She spun her sword so that it rested behind her back, and gave a deep bow to her partner, graceful and smug.

Sandor couldn't help it when his eyes drank in her form. With her looking like that, face flushed from the fight and a victorious smile tugging at those petal-pink lips... there was nothing more fucking beautiful. He fought past the growl that was forming in his chest.

_She was strong. His woman. His mate._

Sandor felt his hands move without the slightest of commands, and he slowly clapped from where he stood. The sound caught the exhausted pair's attention, and large, doe-eyes flickered his way. Immediately, the girl straightened, dropping her sword arm to her side.

"Nice show," Robb Stark boomed, laughing even as his eyes slid to Sandor in slight weariness. His attention was grabbed by his sister though, for he didn't spare the larger man another glance. "Been keeping up with your practice then, Sister?"

The Stark girl stared at Sandor for maybe a second too long, as if she was reluctant to look away. She blinked, hand tightening on the hilt of her wooden sword.

"More than you," She shot back to her brother.

Jon Snow snorted, "She's accurate, at least." He walked to his sister, movements easy and comfortable as he ruffled her hair. "C'mon, it's almost midday. Now that you're finished," He gave the short, olive-skinned man next to the girl a nod of acknowledgement, "Your mother wants you in the dining hall to join the royal family for lunch."

The curly haired man bowed his head to the two males, eyes smiling. "A man must be off then. He will leave a girl in your capable hands." With that said, he turned on his heel to exit the yard, but not before giving Sandor dark glance. "Keep her safe, Young Lords."

Sandor sneered in his mind at the indirect threat. What a greasy twat. As if he would ever hurt the girl.

Robb cocked a brow and Jon cleared his throat.

"Right," the bastard began, "We best be off too. They'll be waiting for you soon."

Robb sighed, "Joy." Jon merely pushed his shoulder in response as the two started walking.

The girl stood there for a moment, still as stone as she looked after her brothers. Just as he thought she was going to go after them, Sandor found himself on the other side of her stare as her head turned towards him, eyes shaking as she licked her lips. Sandor watched as she faced him, as if she was being pulled by a string.

Slowly, so slowly that Sandor itched to pull her to him, she took a single step towards his direction.

"Arya!" Robb shouted, looking to her expectantly. "C'mon then!"

The girl snapped her head towards him, the spell broken. She shuffled on her feet.

With one last, lingering look to Sandor, she reluctantly turned towards her brothers, running off with her sword swinging by her side.

Despite the disappointment clenching at his chest, Sandor felt his lips curling upward the slightest bit.

_Arya. Her name was Arya._

**Author's Note:**

> Arya is the age she is in the TV show. This is what inspired her soul mark: http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/tribal-tatoo-howl-wolf-tattoo-design-illustration-30451213.jpg


End file.
